


Pride Before A Fall

by GooseWhiskers



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Companions, Fights, Gen, Mentor/Protégé, Sparring, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 00:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17908298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GooseWhiskers/pseuds/GooseWhiskers
Summary: Änwin once served as the Stormblade, a trusted figurehead of Ulfric's rebellion. But against the Companion's rigorous training, she's just a child playing at war.





	Pride Before A Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Excerpt from a larger fic I never finished back in... 2014 .-.

The sounds of combat rang through the air, cutting through the summer heat and ringing down the streets of Whiterun from Jorrvaskr all the way to the Gildergreen. The ferocious battle cries and the clang of steel swung with enough force to shatter bone, were nothing short of terrifying. Luckily for the town’s residents, the duel in the courtyard below Skyforge was only practice.

“Feeling tired yet, whelp?”, Skjor teased as Äne blocked another furious blow with her shield.

“You wish!’, she retorted, making a series of lightning-quick jabs with her sword. The senior warrior evaded with practiced ease.

“Ye’ve got ‘em on the run Ännie!”, Torvar swooned, waving an empty mead bottle in the air. She glanced towards the porch, where the blonde Nord sat in the shade with the rest of the Companions to watch her and Skjor spar. Skjor caught her brief lack of attention, and capitalized on it unmercifully, forcing her back several paces.

She cursed under her breath for giving up so much ground, especially when Kodlak was watching. Even now, the young warrior could feel the Harbinger’s eyes on her, seeing everything, evaluating every motion with an experienced eye. There was much to learn, much that she still did not see – but even so, she desperately wanted the White-Mane to approve of her progress.

“Faster swings, Änwin, and watch your footing! Aela handles a blade better than that!”, Vilkas accused critically from the sidelines, eliciting a sharp glare from the bow-favoring Huntress, who sat at the table only a few feet away.

“She strikes like a viper”, Athis observed, his red eyes intent upon the swordplay. The dark elf leaned against a support beam, his gray skin making him blend uncannily with the shadows. “I’m actually amazed Skjor’s managed to dodge.”

“He’s only playing with her”, Vilkas insisted. “It’s like I’ve been telling _you_ , Ria”, he looked over at the Redguard girl who was sitting beside Aela, “It all comes down to footwork. Änwin might have speed, but she strikes too far out and braces herself for a blow too sharply. Whatever advantages she gains by her reaction time, she loses in compensating for her carelessness.”

“Couldn’t that just have something to do with her ﬁghting style?”, Ria asked, “If she’s got the ability to keep herself–”

“No”, Vilkas interrupted brusquely, “You should always stay balanced.”

“Her shield technique is impressive.” Aela praised.

Njada crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, keeping her hard gray eyes ﬁxed on the ﬁght, “Eh, her grip on the shield is still shaky. She’s lifting in plenty of time to block Skjor’s blows, but I guarantee you that arm is taking more of a beating than the shield.”

Nothing more was said for a time. Kodlak allowed himself a rare smile as he contemplated the Companions’ opinions, glad at the range of talents they all displayed and offered. The diversity united them, rather than pulling them apart, which made the guild strong.

Most of what had been observed, Kodlak had also seen himself. There were other things, too, both good and bad, that the white-haired veteran noticed which the others did not mention. But that was to be expected. He was the oldest present, after all, by many years.

Skjor, for example, was having a much harder time parrying Äne’s attacks than Vilkas have her credit for. Äne’s carelessness would only be noticed by the most experienced of warriors. It wasn’t an excuse, of course, but it would be unfair to act as if her performance comprised naught but mistakes. Even if Skjor’s victory was certain by now (for Kodlak could see the exhaustion mounting with Äne’s every strike and parry, and knew she would soon make a costly mistake), it would not be achieved with the same effortlessness of facing a common thug. Young as she was, Äne was made of sharper stuff than that. Poor girl.

Some specter haunted her steps, kept the sword on her waist. There was a ﬁre in her eyes, a fiercely burning flame which no doubt kept her demons at bay. She demanded so much from herself, more even than she demanded from others. The subtleties of this force were difﬁcult to discern, but Kodlak knew well the presence of that phantom, for it had once tormented him, long ago.

It was a valuable drive for a warrior, and would no doubt lead her to great victories, but Kodlak worried that the young warrior would lose sight of what really mattered if she didn’t learn to recognize when the time came to enjoy life, in spite of its many sorrows. There were many things he thought to say to her once the blades were sheathed, but the Harbinger decided that this was the most important. The Circle would have enough technical advice to give her, it was her Spirit that Kodlak would concern himself with.

“What do you think, Kodlak?”, Aela asked, noticing his grin. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

He nodded slowly, “Indeed. I imagine she’s had fools underestimating her her entire life.”

“Don’t you ﬁnd it a bit off, though?”, the Huntress asked more quietly, so that only the Harbinger could hear. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was like us. A–”

“Yes, I know”, he interrupted. Aela’s evergreen eyes narrowed, it was a rare occasion when Kodlak cut any of them off mid-sentence. He met her gaze evenly, “Not here.”

His behavior clearly concerned her, but Aela nodded and turned her attention again to the duel.

 

* * *

 

Sweat dripped from her brow and the heavy armor was gaining weight after every swing and block. Skjor hadn’t missed the signs, and he’d be looking for the openings Äne knew she would start to leave if the match went on for too much longer. She had to ﬁnish this quickly.

Skjor gave a quick jab, exposing his chest. Äne went for the opening, realizing it was a feint a split second too late. She raised her shield as quickly as she could, Skjor’s blade crashing into the metal with an earsplitting crack. The force of the blow sent shockwaves through Änwin’s arm and threw her off balance. She tried to recover, but Skjor kicked her hard in the shin and swept her to the ground at sword point before she could draw in another breath.

The rest of the Companions let out a collective held-breath.

“That… wasn’t fair”, Äne gasped, ﬂicking the tip of his blade away with the back of her hand and rolling onto her hands and knees.

“The enemy doesn’t ﬁght fair, whelp”, Skjor retorted, “Do I really have to tell you that?” His face was red with exertion, narrow eyes holding not an ounce of sympathy. He turned and walked towards the porch, leaving her panting in the dirt. Äne had fallen for a stupid trick and it had cost her the match. Shame burned her face, a real warrior would never have made such a mistake.

Now that the ﬁght was over, she allowed herself to assess her injuries. A bruise was forming on her left shoulder, and her head throbbed where she hit the ground. Most of her shield arm was numb. Her lungs burned. Her body was shaking under the weight of the heavy, hot armor. It would be difﬁcult to walk back into Jorrvaskr without limping.

Suddenly she felt hands on her shoulder from behind. Äne ﬂinched.

“Easy lass, that was a hard fall”, came the deep, gentle voice of Kodlak. “Farkas, go and fetch Tilma.”

“What? Oh…Yes, Kodlak”, the burly, dark-haired Nord replied from the porch. Äne heard the doors of Jorrvaskr open and close.

“Harbinger! No, that’s not- not necessary”, she struggled to get to her feet, embarrassed still more to think that she should look like she needed help.

“Better safe than sorry.” His ﬁrm, gentle grasp did not release her until she was fully upright. Kodlak smiled genuinely, “You fought well.”

Äne frowned, meeting his gaze. “I fell for a foolish ploy.”

“It’s been a long time since I saw Skjor resort to a trick like that to end a match; even so, I hardly expected you defeat a warrior more than two decades your senior.”

“I’ve done it before”, Äne answered, a little defensively. She glanced towards the porch, where Skjor was speaking with Vilkas.

Kodlak’s eyes narrowed a small fraction, “Meet me in my study after Tilma’s seen to your bruises, lass. I want to speak with you.”

Äne nodded, putting on the most conﬁdent face she could muster.

He wasn’t fooled. “Don’t punish yourself too harshly for losing, Äne. I was impressed with your performance.”

“Thank you… sir”, she searched his face, but he seemed sincere. If only she could believe that he wasn’t just trying to be polite. The Harbinger nodded and made his way back inside, and Äne couldn’t help but notice how frail he looked. His noble posture was strained, as if many troubles weighed him down. But she didn’t get to study him long before Vilkas was in front of her, offering his oh-so-helpful and absolutely uninvited critique.

“By Ysgramor, Änwin, what was that? You moved like a drunken horker out there, surely you saw that he was trying to trick you!”

Äne knew the muscular Nord meant well, that he knew she was capable of better, and was teaching her to keep herself alive in the best way that he knew how. She still found his words signiﬁcantly more irritating than the gentle encouragement of Kodlak. _Skjor’s_ critiques were less acerbic.

“Yes”, she answered sourly, instead of entering into an intense scrutiny of the duel with him, as she did in better moods, “It won’t happen again.”  

Vilkas nodded, somewhat startled. He continued to rail her in his thick Nordic accent, “Good. Enemies like the Forsworn won’t hesitate to kill an opponent on the ground, and they’ll resort to trickery much faster than we will.”

Shrugging him off, Äne struggled to walk evenly to the door of the Companion’s mead hall. She hoped it would be cooler within than it was outside in the summer heat. She could use a strong drink about now.


End file.
